


Honey

by queenofquiet17



Category: Will & Grace
Genre: But it eventually lands at "Moveable Feast", Canon Bisexual Character, F/F, I just started writing a bunch of random stuff that ended up becoming this, Mutual Pining, Owning up to feelings, POV Second Person, so many feelings, there's no real plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 16:58:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16559657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofquiet17/pseuds/queenofquiet17
Summary: She makes it hard to concentrate on your designs, but you like the distraction. She smirks or arches her brow in a certain way, and it knocks every other thought out of your head. You get to the point where you realize this is the way it has always been, this is the way you have always felt; you just always had a reason to keep those things in the back of your mind, where you didn’t have to think about them. You had boyfriends and ill-advised first dates and flirting in clubs to keep your mind off of any possibility you could put her name to.There are no boyfriends now, no ill-advised first dates. You haven’t flirted in a club in months. Will’s been telling you to put yourself out there again. But every single possibility in your mind has her name written all over it.So you start considering them.Grace finally realizes why it feels so good to hear Karen call her "Honey."





	Honey

**Author's Note:**

> Lately, I've had to make an insane commute because of a new job (anywhere from 2 1/2 to 3 hours each way), and aside from being incredibly sleep deprived, I've also had Andrea Gibson's poetry to keep me company most nights. Their poem ["Honey"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=okTss_fKdNg) made me feel some things, and ended up inspiring this piece (there are lines from it that begin both sections). This fic is basically a compilation of all the times I should have been in bed but had to write down the few lines that just came to me first.
> 
> As always, thank you so much to my usual suspects: my [Bookworm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/disgruntledkittenface) for showing me that this was more than just proof that I needed more sleep, and my fic clique for that extra boost of flails. I love you.

**_“My shine is working overtime  
Just to hear her call me Honey”_ **

Whenever somebody asks you why, you lie. You blame it on her contacts. You blame it on her status. You blame it on the fact that you can put her name on checks that she will never cash, and _that,_ my friends, is the best deal of all when you’re running your own business. When you punctuate it like that, they usually drop the subject. The subject doesn’t need to be picked up in the first place. No one needs to know your motives. No one needs to know your plans. Let them think you hired her because she was the only option. Let them think you were desperate for somebody, anybody, even if that somebody didn’t know her way around a fax machine or the finer points of phone etiquette. Your business is not their business. And your business is doing just fine.

You never tell them the truth because they wouldn’t understand the truth. Because sometimes, you don’t even understand the truth. You don’t tell them that the first time she walked through the door, her strange light blinded you, and there are still times when you see the after-image in her wake. You don’t tell them how she didn’t have the skill set to match her brazen confidence, but that was the thing that made her more compelling. You don’t tell them how the office didn’t feel complete until she set up shop across the room with a martini in one hand and a copy of _Vogue_ in the other. You don’t tell them that you would gladly waste company time trying to figure her out, trying to put her puzzle pieces together even though you know she stole a few from the box and won’t give them back.

Those things are just for you.

Every time she looks at you, it’s like a dare. She dares you to say something when she comes for your clothes, your hair. She dares you to come closer after she’s pushed you away. She dares you to stop her from staking her claim. She dares you to climb over her impossibly high wall and plant your flag on the other side. And you want to make that climb, telling yourself that it’s just curiosity about the secrets someone like her held. But you know you want to get to the part of her that no one else can see. You know you want to rise to the challenge. You want to prove that you can keep those secrets close, that you can keep them safe.

But you struggle to get your footing sometimes. She takes a loose brick from her wall and starts to slowly and silently slide it out in a way that wouldn’t make the whole thing collapse; you keep tripping—over yourself, over the idea of her, over things you don’t even see yet—inches away from her, threatening total demise every time. Like the time you saw the things she did on videotape when she was just out of college, the way she cracked that whip for the camera, and you joked about it because you swore she was the type of woman who got a kick out of having that on her résumé. But then you saw the way her hazel eyes grew wide, the way she grabbed that bottle like she wanted to drown the memory in Stoli so no one could ever speak of it again, the way she stormed out of the office to get away from your betrayal. And it shook you, kept you from focusing on anything that wasn’t her. It made you hunt for every single copy of that video so no one else could have a turn in hurting her like that. It made you hand over a box full of her regret so she could take it and destroy it. It made her look at you like she trusts you. Because you finally got it right. You finally started to know her better. You finally found the foothold and pulled yourself up one more level. You liked the view from up there. You still do.

Her gratitude colored her voice when she hugged you and called you honey. And in that moment, you swore to yourself that you would do what you could to get her to sound like that all the time.

Do you remember how it jolted you the first time she called you honey? First day on the job, and you knew she wasn’t the conventional assistant, you knew it would be an uphill battle to get things done, but you told her how it works around the office, and by the time you were finished, she flashed you a smile and she let it slip. _Gotcha, honey._ Like you weren’t her boss. Like you were two friends hovered over cups of coffee, talking low in case the ones you were talking about were in earshot. Where did she get off feeling so familiar? You chalked it up to inexperience and realized it was something you’d have to live with. You decided then that it would annoy you every time it happened.

But god, you love it now.

You know it’s crazy. You know that everyone’s her honey, that she throws the word around like it doesn’t weigh a thing. But you swear to god, whenever she throws it your way, you feel your body give as you catch it. You swear to god it sounds golden like honey, like it sticks sweetly to her lips. You swear to god it sounds like a proper name, like it’s _your_ proper name, like there was never a time when Grace Elizabeth was uttered in frustration or joy or love by your mother, your sisters, your best friend when he’s had one too many and thinks it’s hilarious to full name you. It has always been capital-H Honey.

_Honey, what’s this? What’s happening? What’s going on?_

_Honey, don’t go out in that outfit._

_Good lord, Honey._

_Honey._

You want to hear her say it in every inflection she stores in her arsenal, and you’re not quite sure why.

But you have a feeling the way she touches you has something to do with it.

You don’t know why you try so hard for someone who doesn’t seem to try at all. But when you try, she trusts. And when she trusts, she starts to play. She got closer and closer, and when she did, you started to notice the precise way her lips curl into her smile, the way gardenia and gin mixed in your head whenever you were near her, the way your thoughts swam so gracefully in it. She was already bold, but when she got close enough to touch you, she got bolder and let her fingers walk along your skin. And you started to feel her boldness spill into your nerves. And you got addicted to the feeling.

The first time she kissed you, she acted like it was nothing; she smiled and went on her way. The first time you woke up with her, head pounding with the memory of tequila splashing its way down the hatch and limes being thrown into the fireplace, she acted like you do this every morning. She brushes against you, she twirls her fingers around your curls, she holds your hand with no sign of letting go, and you have to pretend like your heart didn’t just cartwheel into your throat, like the butterflies in your core didn’t all just crash into each other, like you didn’t have to remember to breathe when you were caught off guard by how soft her touch is. You have to pretend like it doesn’t affect you, because you can’t tell if it affects her. Because you’re a girl, and she’s a girl, and that’s what girls do. Girls get the luxury of being platonically intimate. And you can hear her every time, whether she says it to your face or it echoes in your head: _It’s not a big deal, Honey. It’s not a big deal._

Except it _is_ a big deal when you realize you want to drop the platonic part of it completely.

She makes it hard to concentrate on your designs, but you like the distraction. She smirks or arches her brow in a certain way, and it knocks every other thought out of your head. You get to the point where you realize this is the way it has always been, this is the way you have always felt; you just always had a reason to keep those things in the back of your mind, where you didn’t have to think about them. You had boyfriends and ill-advised first dates and flirting in clubs to keep your mind off of any possibility you could put her name to.

There are no boyfriends now, no ill-advised first dates. You haven’t flirted in a club in months. Will’s been telling you to put yourself out there again. But every single possibility in your mind has her name written all over it.

So you start considering them.

Her husband thought he could get away with anything and got sent away when they told him he couldn’t; it’s why you woke up in her bed so she wouldn’t be lonely, like you do that every morning. You kept looking over at her and couldn’t believe how beautiful she was when she was at peace. Your boyfriend thought it was easier to run than to work, and he left you wondering what changed and how Susie spells her last name; it’s why she kissed you in your bed like it was nothing. You’re a girl. She’s a girl. It’s just platonic intimacy. It’s just what you do. No big deal, Honey. Except your reasons for holding back and her reasons for holding back aren’t reasons anymore. And now, you want to throw yourself forward. You want to trip and catch yourself on her heart.

And when you spend Thanksgiving in such close quarters—in rental cars, in hotel rooms, on couches in Connecticut—and you see the look in her eye that tells you she’s considering her husband’s idea of putting a freeze on whatever’s left of their marriage, you feel yourself growing clumsier and clumsier by the second.

You get a moment alone with her, get a couple martinis in your system before the third feast of the day. You like the way it loosens you up. You ask her if she’s serious about finding someone, if she really wants to go through with it. You know she wants to, you know her marriage barely counts as a marriage. But she tells you that it’s not going to be with you, and you want to ask her why not. You want to tell her that you already kiss and you already wake up next to each other, so why wouldn’t she want to be with someone she could trust? Why wouldn’t she want to be with someone who knew her? Why wouldn’t she want to be with someone who could make it all worth it?

It’s bold, thinking that you could be that someone. But it feels right. And you spend the rest of the night, jumping from Thanksgiving to Thanksgiving until you finally get to go home, thinking of nothing but ways you can make everything worth it to her.

By the end of the night, when your road weariness has settled in, when Will has gone to bed and Jack has gone across the hall and Rosario has gone off to Park Avenue ahead of her boss, it’s just you and her, filling the silence with the martinis you fixed. She’s seated at the dining table, running her fingers around the rim of her drink and when you sneak a few glances at her from the kitchen, she has a look fixed in her eyes like she doesn’t want to go home. You don’t want her to go home. You want to kiss her and have it mean something. You want to take her to your bed so you can wake up with her and know that you could do this every morning. You want it so much, you can’t take it anymore. And you can blame it on the martinis. And you can blame it on exhaustion destroying your inhibitions. You can blame it on a million different things if this backfires. But you have to do something.

You’re going to do something.

You’re going to trip over yourself, over her, over things you can now see so clearly, you can’t believe there was a time when you didn’t know they were there. She looks at you now, and it feels different. Because this time, you’re going to be the one with the dare. This time, you’re going to be staking your claim. This time, you’re determined to land on the other side of the wall and plant your flag. You take a breath and cut to the chase. “Why not me?” you ask, your voice shattering the silence.

She jumps at the question, and you like that you can rattle her. “What?”

“If you’re going to be with someone,” you said, the vodka or the exhaustion (you’re not sure which) kicking in, making you bolder, letting you adopt the same brazen confidence she showed the second she walked through your office door, “why not me?” You let your steps punctuate your question as you walk over to the dining table and kneel down to her level. You see the stunned look in her eyes. You steady your balance on her shoulder. And then you lean in.

And you swear she tastes golden and sweet.

And you swear that when you try to pull away, you stick together for a second.

And when you see her eyes, they’re softer. And when you hear her voice, you can’t place the inflection. It must have been in the far back of her arsenal. But you hear it wrap itself around your proper name.

“Honey.”

And you hold your breath.

 

* * *

 

 _**“Honey, you just need to know** _  
_**This is the first time I’ve ever done this without looking for an exit row** _  
_**And I’m pretty sure my seat can’t float** _  
_**But I’ve already fallen to the sky for you”** _

Whenever somebody asks you why, you lie. You blame it on boredom. You blame it on a whim. You blame it on the fact that you thought a change of scenery might be fun, but now you’re stuck in the same spot day in and day out, and _that,_ my friends, is the biggest irony of all when you’re trying to shake things up. When you punctuate it like that, they usually laugh the subject away. The subject shouldn’t have been within reach in the first place. No one needs to know your motives. No one needs to know your plans. Let them think that you’re there as a joke. Let them think that you would walk away in a second. Let them think that you could care less about this place, about this woman who inexplicably took a chance on you. Your business is not their business. Your business mingles with her business. And you like her business.

You never tell them the truth because they wouldn’t understand the truth. Because sometimes, you don’t even understand the truth. You don’t tell them how you were so strongly drawn to her ad in the paper that you didn’t even consider how crazy it was to reach out for something you didn’t need. You don’t tell them that the wildfire in her curls spread to your heart and started to melt the ice around it. You don’t tell them about the comfort you find every time you see her hovering over a sketchpad or tilting her head as she studies a piece of fabric, or every time you hear her ask for something she knows you won’t do. You don’t tell them that the place they think is a joke is the place that feels more and more like home every single day.

Those things are just for you.

Every time she looks at you, it’s like she’s clutching a new puzzle piece in her hand, trying to figure out where it could possibly go. And at first, you like that she spends so much time on you, determined to get the full picture. You don’t want her to get it too quickly. So you mix a few decoys in with the sincerity just to keep her eyes on you. You craft a few barbs about her wardrobe that you don’t fully mean. You keep her at arm’s length just to see if it’ll stop her. You call her honey, because you call everyone honey, because it helps to have a blanket pet name to make it seem like you’re closer than you really are and it cushions the blow when they inevitably fail you. You call her honey because she feels like more than that and it scares you to think that she might be different, that she might give you hope. You call her honey so you don’t have to admit she rattles you.

But every time you call her honey, she shines like she’s been truly recognized for the first time in her life. And you never thought you would see the day when honey actually endears you to someone, makes you want to chip away at the walls, or at the very least wait for her to climb over them. And you know you’re waiting for the clumsiest girl to secure her footing; she trips when she’s confident, knocks things over when she’s nervous. But something inside you is screaming that the wait is worth it. The wait lets you study her. The wait lets you trust her. The wait makes you soften every time you call her honey.

The wait makes you believe that honey really is golden and sweet.

She tells you stories and, so help you, you want to hear them all. You want to hear about the bad school plays and the hot, miserable days of summer camp. You want to hear about the first time she truly had her heart broken, and how the one who broke it became her best friend. You want to hear about how she dated that best friend’s shrink and wonder why that violation of moral code turns you on. You want to hear about terrible first dates and every single grievance she’s suffered at the hands of men who didn’t realize how wonderful she is, just so you know what you’re up against. And then you start to wonder why you want to know what you’re up against, why you think you’re up against it at all. You try to pinpoint this feeling before you realize you’ve never known this feeling before.

She makes you feel like you’re strapped in to your seat 30,000 feet in the air and your plane is taking a nosedive. But you don’t care that your seat can’t float, and you don’t care about finding a way out. Because you just know that amidst the chaos, she’s going to be the one to pull you out of it and save you. You marvel at how well adrenaline and safety mix together. You marvel at how she, of all people, is the one who knows how to mix it.

You haven’t been a betting woman since your disaster of a first marriage blew up in your face when you went all in. You take your time, you consider all your options, and you pick something, someone, you know from all angles. You know what you’re getting, even if what you’re getting wouldn’t satisfy the slightest hunger. You know you’re getting decent poker faces swimming in apathy. You know you’re getting performances for the public and cancelled shows when you come home. You know you’re getting that itch in the back of your mind that keeps trying to tell you to do something else with your life, the itch that you’ve learned to ignore. You know that when the two of you inevitably part ways, it doesn’t crush you like people said it would. But then she finds her way into your world. She who wears her heart on her sleeve and lets every emotion she feels rest in her eyes. She who couldn’t keep a secret about herself if she tried. She who trips. She who believes in inexplicable chances.

You can’t believe that the girl with the most transparent poker face in the world is the girl you’d bet your life on.

You want to test the boundaries without revealing your motives. So you just make it part of the puzzle of your personality, another thing for her to figure out, another reason to keep her eyes on you even though you’ve started to get sick of the game, even though you just want to let her in completely. You kiss her because you can, because she doesn’t stop you. You spend nights switching clothes and waking up next to each other and act like you pay it no mind. Because you’re trying really hard to pay it no mind. You try not to think about how her lips send a charge through you that you can’t explain. You try not to think about how good it feels to feel the weight of her against your body. You try not to think about your motives for brushing up against her, for twirling your fingers in the fire of her red locks, for holding her hand without wanting to let go. If you think about it for too long, you sink deeper and deeper into trouble.

This is just what you do, this is just what girls do, this is no big deal, honey.

Except you’re getting worse and worse at convincing yourself that it’s no big deal. In fact, you’re about as good at convincing yourself as you are at anything she asks you to do around the office on any given day.

Neither of you realized what it would mean when she insisted on staying the night with you, sleeping in your bed, keeping you company after visiting Stanley in prison and biting down the urge to tell him that this is what he deserves. You liked that she stayed. You felt peaceful when you looked over at her, laying on the other side of the bed like she was always meant to be there. You started to feel like she _was_ always meant to be there. You got used to the closeness of her so quickly. And when it was gone, when she eventually went back to her own apartment and a relationship that didn’t involve you, you missed the closeness of her terribly. You realized you’ve always wanted that closeness with her, that you always will want that closeness with her. You just never thought you would actually get it again, and have it really count for something.

But then her relationship dissolved. And your loneliness grew stronger. And neither of you did anything to change the situation. And by the time you get into the rental car that will lead your makeshift family around to four different Thanksgiving celebrations, you realize how close you are to her, and you realize you can’t keep shoving those thoughts to the dark corners of your mind. And by the time she’s sitting next to you in the hotel room of Jack’s stepdad, with her thigh against your thigh and nothing to do but watch the football game or lose yourself in your own fantasies, you’re seconds away from losing your mind. Because you can’t stop thinking about how nothing is stopping either of you now.

Your husband spent the holiday telling you your marriage doesn’t count while he’s away, and you wish you could be surprised. But if you really think about it, your marriage hasn’t counted in a long time. And going through the motions makes no sense when you’re the only one moving. You feel lighter somehow, putting a voice to what you had been thinking for years—at least since you answered that innocent ad looking for a designer’s assistant—like you could simply float on to the next thing. You think about how she could be the next thing. But when you finally get her alone and the martinis are working their way through your bodies and she gives you a window, asks if you’re seriously thinking about going through with it, you tell her it’s not going to be with her. And you can’t believe you just did that. She didn’t deserve it. She wasn’t fishing for the answer you couldn’t give, although you wish she was. But if any part of her thought that you were looking for a fling, you wanted her to be sure you weren’t thinking of her as a fling. Because she’s not just a fling.

She is so much more than that.

By the end of the night, you’re seated at her dining table hoping to either drown your regret in the martini she made you or find your resolve at the bottom of the glass. You watch her in the kitchen, washing the dishes you thought she’d leave for Will to take care of in the morning and taking breaks to sip from her own drink. Even with the running water, it is far too quiet. Maybe you shouldn’t have let Rosario go on without you. Maybe you should have made your way across the hall with Jack. Maybe you should have struck up some convoluted back and forth with Will that he’d just have to get into before he could go to sleep. Anything to help you take your mind off of your thoughts of her. But then you hear her shut the water off. And then you hear her.

“Why not me?”

It shakes you when she says it, and you can’t tell if it’s because she broke the silence, or because you know exactly what she’s talking about. You try to give yourself a moment to recover. “What?”

She starts to make her way towards you, and you can feel the way you heart speeds up. “If you’re going to be with someone, why not me?”  And before you can give your half-baked reasons, you feel her lips against your lips, and it feels so different from when you press yours against hers. Because when you press yours against hers, you have what feels like control. You can stun her, and you like that she can be stunned. You just had no idea that she could stun you right back. You want her to stun you all the time.

When she kisses you, you taste something golden. You taste something sweet. And when she pulls away, you try to hold one for one second longer.

“Honey...” You try to search for the words you would use if you were trying to keep the walls up. But you realize that her brazen confidence deserves an honest answer. And you know you have to give a voice to your truth. “If it’s you, then it’s the long haul. Do you really want that?”

She tilts her head and smirks like she isn’t the same woman with the transparent poker face, like she isn’t nervous. Like their world isn’t about to change dramatically. “Karen,” she says, and you are in awe of the way she makes the hard “K” sound so soft, so gentle. “I’ve been waiting four years for the long haul.” She plunges her lips into yours, smiling into your mouth as you pull her closer, as you tighten your hold on her. Her tongue caresses yours and it takes all you have not to melt into your chair. You had no idea she could be so bold. Whenever she pulls her lips away, it feels criminal.

“Grace…” you whisper as you try to catch your breath.

She shakes her head and fans the flames of her wildfire curls. “Call me Honey,” she murmurs back. And you thank the powers that be that you’re sitting down, because the way she softly commands you makes you weak in the knees. It makes you want to give her everything she’s ever wanted. And you can start with this.

She presses her lips to your neck, your cheek, your lips.

She kisses like she will not rest until she’s tasted every inch of your skin.

And every time you pull away, every time she stakes her claim, every time she plants her flag, you call her name over and over, as if it’s the only word you know.

“Honey...Honey...Honey…”


End file.
